


The Dress

by Guede



Series: Teen Wolf Rejected Story Ideas [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bondage, Clothing Kink, Comeplay, Corsetry, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Human Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Impact Play, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nipple Torture, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has a corset in his closet, and Stiles gets ideas (and Peter’s around because he <i>lives</i> for those kinds of ideas).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dress

“That’s a back brace,” Chris mutters.

“That is totally _not_ a back brace,” Stiles says, pulling it out of the back of Chris’ closet.

It’s a corset. It’s a corset, and it’s not sized to fit Allison or, as well as Stiles can remember, Victoria, and he’s got a pretty good memory for sizing, what with his tailoring business and everything.

He holds it in front of him, then looks over his shoulder as Chris makes a strangled noise. The other man’s looking—not at Stiles, but at the very edge of the corset, as if he’s trying to drag his eyes away but can’t quite get it off that last inch. And he’s deeply, deeply red, which is pretty impressive given the stubble and the outdoors tan.

“Stiles, can we just—” Chris grunts.

So Stiles isn’t a total sadist, and anyway, they have monsters to kill. “Hey, no judgment,” he says, putting it back. “But just so you know, you ever need a good line in women’s shoes, I can totally hook you—”

Chris jerks past him to grab something which turns out to be a really, really bizarre wooden idol, and…okay, Stiles is kind of easily distracted. Whatever, the corset’s not the weirdest thing Stiles has ever seen.

* * *

But it sticks in his head a little. He blames the fact that Victoriana is back in fashion, and half his customers are bringing him screenshots of _Penny Dreadful_ and wanting to know whether he can do vegan whalebone.

“Oh, come on, Stiles, they’re just trying to be more conscious of the world they live in, and all that, shouldn’t that be commendable?” Peter says, stretching lazily. He nuzzles Stiles’ knee, then makes a soft, not really that sorry noise as Stiles reaches down and pulls him back by the hair. “As a key player in the ecosystem myself, I do appreciate it when I don’t have artificial competition. Survival in the wild is difficult enough.”

“Says the werewolf who breaks out in hives from mass-manufactured socks,” Stiles snorts.

Not to mention him and Peter getting together in the first place because Peter dragged his nephew to Stiles’ shop for a fitting, with instructions that Stiles ‘put together an outfit for him that _doesn’t_ get shredded off when someone looks at it.’ And then got distracted by some of the suit models on the mannequins, and stayed for the private after-hours fitting. And now Peter’s a happy little beta werewolf, snuggled down on the couch next to Stiles, properly collared and tied up and plugged.

Speaking of which, Peter huffs so that the lace Stiles is trying to attach goes fluttering away from his face. Which probably was annoying him, but it’s also an excuse to get Stiles’ attention so he can plump up his ass and show off buttocks quivering around the black-tasseled plug sticking out of it, moaning and pulling at where his wrists are strapped behind him with dragonhide leather.

“I just appreciate a well-made garment,” Peter murmurs, rubbing his head back into Stiles’ stomach. He closes his eyes and purrs at the light scratch under his chin, but then he tries to nose down to Stiles’ crotch, and _that’s_ going to make the stitches go all crooked. Not that Peter’s repentant or anything. “Stiles, for God’s sake, that’s not even for work. That’s just—”

“What, just for fun? Like you?” Stiles says, grabbing Peter’s collar. He drags Peter’s head back onto his knee, then reaches under the man and pulls at one of the nipple clamps. “The longer it takes for me to baste this in place, the longer you’re gonna wait. So you’re just screwing yourself over, you know.”

Peter whimpers and crooks his throat at Stiles, the muscles in his shoulders and back shivering long after Stiles has left off the clamp. “Fine, fine,” he mutters. “I _won’t_ ask why you’re making that for Chris.”

“Jealous?” Stiles asks absently. He’s gotten to a tricky corner, and is flipping the lace back and forth, pinning and repinning it.

“Hardly. It’s a little more conservative than you like me,” Peter says.

Stiles looks down, then sticks a pin on where he is and sighs. He puts the pieces aside and picks up Peter’s head with both hands, and then bends over to kiss the man. Peter immediately presses into it, a lot less indifferent than he’d sounded a moment ago, moaning quietly into Stiles’ mouth. His eyes are closed when Stiles pulls back, and they stay closed as Stiles twists around to lie alongside him, sucking down the side of his throat, playing with the nipple clamps and then the cock ring on him.

“Don’t be stupid, Peter,” Stiles mumbles. He drags his fingertip in a circle on the tip of Peter’s cock, pushing around the plentiful precome there, and then brings up that hand to smear the precome around Peter’s nipples. “You’re still my favorite model, you know that.”

Peter opens his eyes and he’s hazy and content, and just terribly trusting, in a way that sort of makes Stiles squirm a little, even though he’s not the one who’s twitching every time those tassels stroke up against flushed, tight balls. Head lolling back, Peter pushes himself down into Stiles’ hands, whining for it, grinding his own balls back into the fistful of tassels that Stiles is rubbing all over them.

“Stiles, Stiles, _please_ —” Peter says, and then he jerks up as Stiles pulls off one nipple clamp, then the other. The clamps have been on long enough that it takes a good second for them to heal from angry red back to their usual soft brown.

“This thing is just—you know, one of those special projects,” Stiles says, sliding in between Peter’s legs. He pushes up Peter’s knees and bats tassels out of the way till he can get at the plug itself, rocking it with a finger to watch Peter shudder and moan. “I don’t know, I just get ideas sometimes. And you usually like them. You liked that first suit I made you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, God yes,” Peter groans, and for a second Stiles thinks he’s gotten to the random babbling stage. But then Peter tips his head and just gets his eyes to focus on Stiles, and no, he’s still listening. “So you’re not going to keep him all to yourself?”

“Hah. I _knew_ you were jealous,” Stiles says, and then takes out the plug and fucks into Peter, so the man doesn’t say anything, just mewls and shivers. He leans over and Peter tilts his head to offer up his throat, so that Stiles has to nip his chin to get him to stop while they’re still able to look at each other. “Well, I’m making you something too. And you’re gonna like it, I already know that. So you be good, all right?”

Peter nods roughly, and then his head falls completely back, caught up in a long, shuddering moan. Stiles snickers, kissing the throat under him, and then gets a good grip on Peter’s hips. Totally called it.

* * *

So the special projects. They’re kind of what got Stiles into this in the first place. Well, okay, actually it was Scott, like most stuff post-Scott turning. His bestie was complaining about how his mom was complaining about finding torn-up clothes in the laundry, and how they couldn’t keep buying him new ones but it wasn’t his fault that werewolfing is hard on the wardrobe. And no, damn it, Stiles, there has to be a better solution than lots of spandex.

Stiles was bored, and they happened to be at Jungle where Stiles was already friends with some of the performers, who chimed in with similar complaints about how hard it was to find stuff that looked fabulous _and_ could stand up to splits, and anyway, werewolves and dancers have a surprising number of wardrobe malfunctions in common. So Stiles sort of started looking into it, just out of curiosity about this overlap, and he made Scott some clothes.

So Scott asks him to make something for his girlfriend’s birthday, which is coming up, and Stiles sighs and doesn’t tell him how learning to cut for a woman’s body is actually not even remotely the same, and whatever, makes it. Allison is pretty cool, considering the whole Romeo-and-Juliet thing she and Scott had going for a while, and earlier in the day she’d been sighing over a pair of leggings she’d torn on a hunt, and Stiles’ brain was already sort of turning.

Anyway, one thing leads to another and Lydia designates herself his publicist in return for dresses that Jackson should be able to take off her without snagging his claws, and Stiles ends up with a clothing line specifically for werewolves and other mass-shifting problem types. Apparently, nobody’s ever thought of this before. Everybody just put up with half-naked weres running around in ragged clothes (okay, so Stiles sees the point there, but just because a were’s hot doesn’t mean they want to be objectified, and honestly, he thinks he deserves a prize for singlehandedly cutting the yearly mauling stats in half).

He’s got more than enough work with that, so he’s not quite as experimental as he was when he first started out. But every now and then, he just…wants to try something. Just challenge himself, keep up his skills, not get boring. There might be a little magic involved too; he’s not so much with the showy casting circles and bubbling potions, but Stiles has always thought it’s pretty powerful how the right set of clothes can totally change a person.

For example, like how Chris Argent is grumpy and bitching about the slime monster that ruined his clothes one second, and then the next he’s dead silent and frozen, his legs half-in the pants Stiles is lending him, hunched over and staring at Stiles’ mannequins.

“That looks familiar,” he finally says.

“Well, I kind of got the idea off that corset that wasn’t in your closet,” Stiles says blandly, coming over with an armful of shirts. “It’s not done yet, so please ignore all the raw seams.”

Chris grunts, no particular expression on his face, and then spurs back into motion. He gets dressed, thanks Stiles for the loan, and then they talk a little about the inevitable clean-up of whenever Scott and Allison discover some sort of evil that needs to be stopped. He’s pretty good about not showing that he’s deliberately not looking at that corner, and by the time Stiles walks him out, he’s almost convinced Stiles that it was just a momentary thing.

“I had to track down a vengeful ghost that was working Rocky Horror showings,” Chris abruptly says. He rubs at the side of his face and doesn’t look at Stiles. “It took a few times to figure out who it was going after. So that’s why it’s in my closet.”

“Just never remembered to donate it to Goodwill, huh,” Stiles says, and they leave it at that.

A couple days later, Stiles gets a text from Chris asking if he can stop by. That’s not unusual—they do a lot of research together, and Stiles purposefully located his shop so he can easily get to it from the preserve and crash after monster-hunting—but Stiles doesn’t know of anything that’s up. And he and Chris have chilled out together for non-Scott-related reasons a couple times, but not so often that it’s a pattern.

So Stiles texts back sure, and then he clears out his calendar, and clears his backroom of any delicate projects. “It’s emptier than usual,” Chris notes when he shows up. “You just get out a big order?”

“No, but we’re kind of between seasons right now,” Stiles says, fiddling with the corset lacing. “I’m easing off on the special commissions. Got to rest these fingers once in a while.”

Chris looks at him for a few seconds. The man’s tense and has a little pink over his cheekbones, and Stiles is fully expecting a lot of grunting and growling and stalling, but Chris occasionally pulls out a left-of-center moment. And he does that now, just turning and looking at the dress on the other mannequin.

“They’re my size, aren’t they?” he says.

Stiles pauses, and then shrugs. “Yeah. Well, you know, as close as I can get just by eyeballing.”

“I think I’ve left a lot of clothes lying around here,” Chris mutters. He takes off his coat, and then pulls out a couple guns, some knives and ammunition, and a wire-stringed rosary.

“Jeans and men’s shirts aren’t exactly the right pattern,” Stiles says, slowly grinning. “You really gotta try it on to make sure. Especially with this sort of thing.”

Chris turns around and steps forward and they’re full-on heavy petting. He skips all the beginner stuff and goes straight to open-mouthed sucking, chasing at Stiles’ tongue and then abandoning that to groan as Stiles grabs at his ass with one hand. They stumble back a few feet and then Chris hits the wall, his hands coming up to clutch at Stiles’ arms. His mouth jars free and he drops back, panting, just _wanting_ it from the heat in his eyes down to the way his knees angle open.

He pulls at Stiles’ arms and Stiles shakes him off—just remembers to not drop the corset—and then puts one hand up and fists it in the front of Chris’ shirt. It’s not tight enough that Stiles chokes him or anything, but Chris hitches as the sides of his shirt-collar tug in towards each other. Then groans again, staring at Stiles. Waiting.

“So we’re gonna have to fit you,” Stiles says. “Strip.”

Chris bites his lip, blinking hard. His right hand jerks and for a second Stiles thinks he’s going to push off the wall, twist out from under Stiles and walk off—but no, the other hand comes up, and then Chris starts unbuttoning his shirt. His hands are a little shaky and he has to try a couple times at one button; he starts to swear, and then he looks up and sees Stiles and he just sucks in his breath instead.

The shirt comes off, revealing a really, really nice chest for a guy his age. It’s smooth, with surprisingly pale skin after the tan line, making his nipples look like little dollops of chocolate. Then Chris undoes his belt and pushes down his jeans, and one, he’s not wearing underwear. Two, he’s smooth there too, cock and balls surrounded by nothing but creamy skin, and his legs—Stiles reaches forward and rubs approvingly over one thigh, then clucks his tongue as Chris’ hands twitch towards his arm.

Hissing, Chris hesitates and then slowly puts his hands against the wall. “I _said_ I did a few of those shows,” he says, raising his brows. “I figured I might as well pull it all out.”

“And that’s very thoughtful of you,” Stiles says. He looks up, with his hand still on Chris’ leg, and then he slides that firmly up, shaping his fingers along one of the thigh muscles, as he leans in and gives Chris a good, deep kiss. “Believe me. I put some really high-end material into these, really fragile stuff. Would hate to get runs in them already.”

Chris swears a little, mumbling around Stiles’ tongue, and then arches roughly as Stiles rolls his balls in one hand. They really are perfectly smooth, not even a hint of stubble. “Did you actually wax them?” Stiles says, groaning some himself.

“Shaved, then sugared,” Chris says. And there’s just the faintest hint of amusement in his moan when Stiles shoves him back against the wall, sucking on his lower lip and massaging his balls so his hips start to jerk. “Fuck, fuck—those shows, we had to— _fuck_ —the fucking stage manager wouldn’t let us in unless we—”

“So if I suck on these, are they gonna be sweet?” Stiles says, pressing his thumb into the little indent at the base of Chris’ scrotum.

Chris knocks his head back against the wall, looking dazed before it even connects. He makes a beautiful little ragged noise, then scrabbles weakly at the wall, struggling to stay on his feet as Stiles backs off.

“Turn around. And after I get it down, hold your cock out of the way,” Stiles says, eyeing the generous smear of precome already coming out of it. “I only just got it finished, I don’t want it stained already.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chris gasps, but he’s already half-turned.

He has to stop and right his balance, shaking his head, and then he gets his back to Stiles, both hands on the wall. He breathes in sharply as Stiles slips the corset around him, so much so that he chokes himself. His fingers curl into fists and he visibly fights to control his breath.

“I don’t know if you remember,” Stiles starts.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, just—it’s been like a decade, all right?” Chris mutters. “Just give me a…okay.”

He gets his breathing right, and Stiles starts lacing him up. Chris shifts to brace his weight on one hand and moves the other one down to hold his cock out of the way, as asked, and Stiles grins and can’t help a quick nip at the back of Chris’ neck. Which stirs out a low, breathy moan that makes Stiles adjust himself before he goes back to the laces.

The corset’s pretty plain as they go, no special trimmings or inserts. Stiles did line it inside with silk, but the rest is dull off-white cotton and he chose the laces for strength and so that they’d lie as flat as possible once pulled taut, keeping the profile smooth. It kind of does look like a back brace.

But that works well on Chris, who’s all lean, spare lines anyway. He doesn’t have much of a waist, and the corset doesn’t really change that, but what it does is make him look sleek, look like something that should be touched in long, smooth strokes, going from the muscle bunching around his shoulderblades, down over the slight inwards bend of the corset, and then riding out over the tight swells of his ass.

“Let me see,” Stiles says, cupping one of those buttocks.

Chris groans, so deep that Stiles feels the bottom hem of the corset vibrate, and then he twists himself around. He’s flushed, can’t quite look Stiles in the eye, can’t quite look away either. His cock is hard and red under the cream edge of the corset and he has to keep tugging it down so it doesn’t smear on the fabric.

Stiles steps up and feels over the corset, checking how it’s curving, listening to how Chris is breathing. He gives its top a few tugs—it’s sitting a little lower under Chris’ nipples than he wanted—but overall, he did a pretty damn good job with just guesswork and his little touch of magic. “Not bad,” he says, tilting his head to catch Chris’ mouth.

They make out again, hot and heavy, Chris letting his head hang in the hand Stiles puts up to cradle it. Stiles plays with his nipples, rolling and pinching, pushing at them with a thumb so that they peak up. Chris likes that, starts jerking at his cock instead of just holding it, but it’s not quite the agonized enthusiasm Stiles gets from Peter.

Anyway, they need to move on before they both die of blue balls. Stiles grabs Chris’ cock and Chris twists sharply, swearing, as if Stiles _made_ him fist himself dry and chafe his own cock. Then moans as Stiles takes his hand and wraps it around the head of his cock, and then squeezes it.

“Okay, so just hold that, I’ll be right back,” Stiles says, and then steps back.

Chris does, and for a few seconds he just watches Stiles root around the room. He shifts on his feet, edging himself up the wall, and then he damn near humps up it as he sees what Stiles comes back with.

“I said don’t rip it,” Stiles snaps. “So that’s not as fragile as the dress, but you keep that up and we’re not going to get to that.”

“Sorry,” Chris says. Not that sincerely, but he’s not mocking, just distracted. He’s still staring at Stiles’ hand. “Just—are you—”

Stiles pushes up into him and kisses him. And pushes his cock down, rolling it against the scratchy denim of Stiles’ jeans, and Chris hisses and shudders and shuts up. When Stiles pulls away, Chris stares at him, gasping, and then closes his eyes. Spreads his legs, his head thumping the wall again.

He holds nice and still as Stiles wraps the ribbon all the way down his cock, swathing it from just behind the head to the base. The silk sticks to his precome, which helps Stiles get it tight—Chris jerks a few times, making bitten-off noises, and then Stiles pulls his hand off his cock and he promptly slaps that against the wall. Then starts scratching at the plaster with it, hips twisting as Stiles loops the ribbon over his balls, too.

Stretches them down a little, adding extra rounds at the top, and then Stiles wraps the ribbon around cock and balls together, so the weight of the scrotum keeps Chris’ erection pointed down. He makes a good knot right at the back of the balls, up against the perineum, and then ties a bow over it. 

Chris’ thighs start to jerk, trying to avoid the tickle, and when Stiles pulls him off the wall and shoves him over a cutting table, he lets out a relieved moan and hikes his legs as far apart as possible. Even claws up with his hands, grabbing the far edge as Stiles pops open a tube of lubricant.

Stiles stretches the man out with his fingers a lot quicker than he normally would, but Chris doesn’t mind the hasty roughness. On the contrary, he’s pumping himself back into it, jamming his feet into the floor. He’s still wearing shoes—Stiles blinks at the oddness of it, work boots with the corset, the ribbon-bound cock and balls, and then reaches down and just touches one, and Chris immediately kicks those off, and then does the same for his socks.

Then Chris is pushing up his ass into Stiles’ face. He reaches around and squeezes one of his own buttocks. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he growls. “Please just—”

Stiles pushes his hand down, then slaps that buttock. Chris drops against the table, shuddering, and Stiles barely remembers to make a note of it before grabbing onto Chris’ hips and pulling the man back onto his cock.

He fucks Chris fast and dirty, no finesse. He’s just trying to get off, and when he does, he lets all his weight drop onto where he’s gripping Chris’ waist, pinning the man in place. Chris swears and bucks, struggling enough that Stiles has to slap his ass twice before getting his attention, and even then Chris is cursing into the table. “Goddamn it, Stiles, what the fuck are you playing at? That was—”

“That was just to get some come in you,” Stiles mutters. As he pulls out, wiping his finger up against his cock where it’s emerging from Chris’ ass, scraping any come that pulls out with it, he sees Chris shiver and he leans over to bite Chris’ shoulder. Then sucks at it while he sticks his finger back into Chris’ hole, pushing the come back in. “Gonna need that later. But for now—”

He grabs the plug and pushes into Chris, who starts and then slumps against the table, face-down and panting so hard that the corset is creaking. Stiles stays over him, checking that Chris doesn’t gasp himself into passing out, but Chris slowly brings his breathing down. Very slowly. He’s covered in sweat, and it’s soaked into the corset around the hem, following the boning in irregular damp streaks.

Stiles makes a face, but then shrugs. Honestly, he knew he was going to have to dry-clean the shit out of everything anyway. He just really likes how Chris looks with his cock tied up. Speaking of…he leans back and peeks between the man’s legs and the little bits of skin that show beneath the ribbon are furiously red, painful-looking. When Stiles reaches under and rubs at the head, Chris shivers viciously and then lets out a whimper that’d do Peter at his most desperate proud.

“Shit,” Chris breathes, his head rocking slightly against the table. He pushes weakly at his hands, and doesn’t rise in the least from the table. “Shit.”

“Still got the dress to go,” Stiles says, and Chris shudders again and whines, his fingers flexing against the table.

He doesn’t even try and look up as Stiles gets off him. Just lies there, occasionally sucking in his breath, his eyes closed. His ass twitches as Stiles mops him down with a bunch of scraps, making the end of the plug bob, its black rubber a nice contrast to the dark pink slap marks to either side of it.

Stiles finally pulls him up by the arms and he stumbles, then catches himself with elbows against the table as his thighs and buttocks quiver. He’s squeezing himself around the plug, bearing down on it as Stiles watches, and it takes him a second to make himself stop. “Fuck,” Chris mutters. “We did _not_ do this.”

“If you had, well, damn, I’d go on more ghost-hunting trips,” Stiles says, shaking out the dress. He turns it the right way around, then lifts it over Chris’ head and slides the man’s arms one by one into the sleeves. Then pulls it down, going slow because the delicate silk is sticking to Chris’ damp skin and he doesn’t want to put runs in it. “I think this might be the first time I actually regret that I was born too late for one. You must’ve looked really good, all dolled up.”

“I got a couple compliments,” Chris says, with a shaky laugh. He puts his hands back down in a hurry, his arms trembling as he fights to stay on his feet. “Wasn’t big on the make-up, kept sweating off and running into my mouth. And the glitter, fuck, I was washing that off for weeks.”

Stiles pauses, and then goes even slower as he tugs the dress over the corset. “Well, make-up’s come a long way, I think we could do better. But I don’t have that around, so…maybe next time.”

Chris moans, his head dropping low between his arms. His nipples are hard and tight, the surrounding muscle twitching as Stiles deliberately grazes his fingers over them, taking a lot longer than necessary to adjust the neckline. He pushes his ass up, leaning into Stiles’ hands as the dress gets pulled together over his back and fastened. Then Stiles flutters the skirt down over his buttocks and Chris jerks sharply, bending over so far that his forehead is resting on the table. He’s forcing himself against the corset for that and he has to rise just seconds later, struggling to catch his breath.

“C’mere,” Stiles says, pulling on one of his arms.

For a second Chris resists, mostly because he doesn’t want to let go of the table. But then Stiles slaps his ass. He jerks his arm back, then realizes he can lie down on the table again and does that, while Stiles pulls his arms behind him. He’s squirming constantly now, squirming and moaning, shutting his eyes and then cracking them open again, like he can barely keep conscious.

Stiles ties his wrists behind him, then works the rope up to his elbows. Ties his arms to his sides at that point, shifting the rope so that it’ll ride against his nipples, and then he pulls Chris off the table. Sits down with him in a nearby chair, while he hisses and tries to twist his weight off the plug—which isn’t that comfortable to have digging into Stiles’ thigh either, but art demands sacrifices sometimes.

And it’s fucking art, when Stiles spins the chair and gives them both a look in the floor-length mirror. Chris is already flushed, but somehow he blushes over that, blushes and bites down on his cursing, and then stares at himself, wide-eyed and shivering. Black silk hugging his body, tight sleeves all the way to the elbow, where they break into a froth of white lace that covers up the rope wrapped around his arms. More lace dripping over the ropes that cross his chest, barely covering up his nipples. When he pants, the top edge of the corset just slips out of the neckline.

And then down to the short, lace-trimmed folds of the skirt, flaring out over indecently long, muscled thighs. Stiles reaches around as Chris is watching and rumples up the silk, letting Chris’ ribbon-wrapped cock and balls hang out, and Chris throws his head back against Stiles’ shoulder and then lets it ride there, shuddering over and over again. When Stiles starts playing with his balls, his head flops over and then goes limp as he whines and sucks air against Stiles’ neck, trying and failing to get the breath to beg.

“You make a really fucking good French maid,” Stiles says, laughing. “Wow. You know, I didn’t even think—but damn, you look good like this.”

“Stiles,” Chris says. That’s all he can say. “Stiles. Stiles. _Stiles_.”

Who kisses his cheek, innocent like his hand toying with the plug in Chris isn’t. Then Stiles carefully shifts Chris off his lap, pushing him into the chair so that he doesn’t slip off. Stiles steps back and looks it over, while Chris pulls weakly at his bonds, and then reaches down and adjusts the skirt so that it’s flipped away from Chris’ sprawled-open legs. He straightens the cock and balls that are lying between those on the chair seat, and then he backs off.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Chris hisses desperately. “Please—”

“One second,” Stiles says, going over to his storage closet.

He opens the door and Peter’s glazed eyes stare back at him. Stiles grins, coming up and ruffling his fingers through Peter’s hair. “Enjoy listening to that?”

Peter whimpers and pushes his head into Stiles’ thigh, arching his neck as Stiles combs his hand down and just strokes his nape. He looks pretty damn good himself. New three-piece suit—without the suitcoat, which just didn’t sit right under the ropes—dark blue vest and trousers, lighter blue shirt, all wrapped over with pretty white rope magicked to hold a werewolf. The way the ropes outline the hard bulge in his pants is nice; the way that the fabric doesn’t show the damp spot Stiles feels when he reaches down and gropes Peter makes Stiles nod approvingly, and Peter whimper around his gag again.

Stiles unties Peter’s feet and pulls him out by the hair. With his arms bound behind him, Peter has to move in a knee-and-foot shuffle that even he can’t make not look awkward, but he’s almost fast enough so that he can keep up with Stiles. He mewls as Stiles’ fingers yank in his hair, then slumps into Stiles’ leg as they stop in front of Chris.

Chris stopped begging the second he saw Peter. When Peter’s knees thump down in front of him, his legs jerk like he’s going somewhere. He looks at Peter, who keeps his face properly smashed into Stiles’ thigh, and then he looks at Stiles, and he’s stunned, sure, but there isn’t a speck of anger in it. All that heat’s coming from something else.

“Stiles, _fuck_ ,” he gasps. “What—”

“Lift your knees,” Stiles says.

Chris swallows hard. Keeps looking at Stiles, and then a rough shudder goes through him. He goes as limp as he can, with the corset keeping his torso straight, and then he hikes up his legs.

“Higher,” Stiles says.

So he moves them higher, and then he gets it. A moan leaks from tightly-pressed lips as he awkwardly hooks his legs over the chair arms, his hips jerking as his weight rolls back onto the plug.

Stiles grins, and then pulls Peter’s head off his leg. He turns Peter towards Chris—the two of them lock eyes for a second, and it is _hot_ , so hot that Peter can’t help a little shiver—and then pushes Peter face-first between Chris’ legs. The skirt’s fallen and Stiles lifts it, catching Chris’ eye as he writhes against the chair back, and nudges Peter under it.

“Smell that?” Stiles says.

Peter takes a good, long whiff, nose almost to the plug in Chris’ hole, and then he lets out a hungry growl. Chris jerks and nearly closes his thighs on Peter’s head, and then he sinks back. He looks at Stiles with a mute plea, and when Stiles leans over and kisses him, his moan is all the thanks that Stiles needs.

Of course, what they _want_ is a different matter. Stiles kisses Chris a second time, while unbuckling Peter’s gag, and then he laughs as Chris abruptly hitches up. “You know, I don’t think we really need to make any adjustments,” he says, over the sound of Peter’s lapping and Chris’ whimpers. “I think you fit just fine.”

* * *

“I feel like I’m in a murder mystery dinner, wearing this thing,” Chris grunts. “I mean—it looks great. For what it is. But—”

“We should totally do that,” Stiles says. Then he reaches over and pets Peter’s cheek, which only makes the alarm in the man’s eyes grow. “Come on, there has to be some country manor somewhere with ghosts we need to deal with. We can work out their issues for them. There’s always some guy having an affair with the maid, right?”

Peter, missing his trousers but otherwise still firmly tied into his clothes, whines a little and mouths at Stiles’ shoulder. He calms down some when Stiles massages the back of his neck, but he still doesn’t look thrilled. “One, you’ve worked far too hard on your branding to move into costuming, Stiles,” he says. “You know what Lydia would say.”

“True,” Stiles says. He pulls Peter’s head more onto his shoulder, then reaches up and pats at Chris’ ass. A little of the slap marks is still visible, and when he traces them, Chris shudders against the crate he’s bent over. “But think about it, okay? Roleplay.”

“Two, I am, and I’m not very fond of the idea that I’m going to be killed _in flagrante delicto_ , even if it’s a fake,” Peter mutters, though he’s eyeing Chris’ ass too. “And don’t tell me that I can be the cuckold instead. That’s even worse.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I said work out their issues, not duplicate them. So instead of killing my wayward spouse and the maid, I just tie them up and punish them a little.”

Chris shivers again, then groans as Stiles teases at his untied, soft, very sensitive cock, scratching off some of the half-dried come from it. He twists his still-bound hands behind his back. “Ghosts don’t really work like that,” he mutters. “I think that’d just end up with Scott storming in on some very—shit. Shit, Stiles, I’m not a goddamn werewolf, I can’t—”

“Yeah, well, you were a werewolf, you wouldn’t mark up so pretty,” Stiles says. “Gotta say, that is kind of frustrating. I can cane Peter all day but I don’t get to look at it afterward.”

Peter whimpers, because that definitely doesn’t mean they don’t _do_ it, and then tucks his head against Stiles’ neck. “Three, isn’t that just a little corny, Stiles? I don’t think—”

“What, putting Chris in a French maid dress and bending him over one of those huge old wooden desks?” Stiles says. “In the library. Definitely the library. And he’d get whipped first, because fucking you is definitely shirking his duties. And his ass would be all red and striped, and then I’d make him suck you off till either his jaw wore out or your cock did, because if you’re going to fuck without me, then you can just take it. And _then_ I’d fuck you. Make you come all over his dress and, and fuck, we should get him stockings too. Silk ones.”

Peter and Chris are both silent, and then they moan, at the same time, with the same needy note in their voices. Chris’ thighs shiver around the hand Stiles has working between them, while Peter rolls himself onto his belly so that he’s pressing his reawakening cock against Stiles’ leg.

“Back brace,” Stiles snorts. He pushes up on his arms, then reaches with both hands and pulls Chris off the crate, and over onto them. “Man. I bet you’re glad I didn’t go with that.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. He shivers as Stiles fingers a nipple through the dress, and then he lets Stiles pull his skirt up and stick two fingers into his hole. “Yeah. Don’t even know how you’d dress for that.”

Peter sucks in his breath, and then surges up and kisses Stiles. Which is very, very clever of him, but really, Stiles isn’t going to forget about it that easily. He’ll just…leave that one for later. It’s always nice to have something on the to-do list.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the middle of this very long, very dark Western AU that is taking forever, and needed to switch pace. This is one of the ideas that I've tossed around for fully fleshing out--like Derek would get in there somewhere, and Peter and Stiles would have a lot of sex in closets, and it'd make more sense why Chris is interested in Stiles--but I ultimately couldn't figure out how to string more than a couple scenes together for it.
> 
> But I couldn't leave Chris in a French maid dress alone. So I wrote out that, anyway.


End file.
